Extract from the book: Out in June 2023!
A sharp wind swept up the dirty-grey road Dad travelled down. Cars parked on either side: bumper-to-bumper creating a wind tunnel. The single strand of hair escaped out of my fingers before I could bite it off and I pushed Sienna’s image to the back of my mind.
I turned towards my flat and made myself focus on Dad again. Dad hated where I lived. Homes built together as one single development. Rows of terrace houses with flats plonked down at either end like sturdy bookends. I lived in one of these, renting out a one-bedroom flat at the age of nineteen. Five cramped flats knitted together by short corridors and stone steps. Walls as thin as card. Everything grey. Inside and out.
Very little wildlife survived here. Except for the mice. Some found refuge, from the under-fed cats, below the decking in some of the back yards. Others ran to the houses. Drawn in by the warmth.
Once, I saw a rat. The ugliest thing I have ever seen. He slithered out of an uncovered grate. I watched him, with unexpected-courage, as he sauntered towards an unoccupied building. His size gave him more confidence than me. His pace was steady. Not rushed. He looked neither left nor right. No fear filled his mind. He paraded like some of the coatless-teenagers who roamed this place at night. All with cigarettes in their mouths and bottles of cider in their pink freezing hands. A sheen ran down his silver coat as every muscle in his body moved. I read somewhere you can tickle a rat and it will laugh. He slipped into the house, like the teenagers slipping into the shadows to get up to no good. There was no way I was following him into the darkness to tickle him. I shuddered. Dogs barked behind me and I closed my eyes for a second. Dogs lived in the housing estate too. The ones around me – trapped indoors or kept out in the cramped back yards. Rarely taken out for a walk, their lives were wasted in whimpering loneliness. Sad really.
I glanced up. Grey, fat clouds covered the afternoon birdless sky. Sometimes I would see seagulls or crows or the odd robin redbreast. But not today. Today was pointless. One of those long days where you achieve nothing, no one listens to your words and you feel alone, gobbled up by insignificance.
Another swelling breeze hit my face.
I thought about her again. My twin, who had died at the age of eleven. I grimaced and bit down on my lip and pulled at the collar of my silk blouse under my cardigan. A bin lorry droned in the distance. My fast heart-rate maintaining the pace of its repetitive beep.
I took a deep breath but still felt heaviness in my chest.
Dad was good to me really. Always checking up on me, encouraging me to apply for jobs and always had time to sit and play a game of chess. He just didn’t get my husband. Blind to his potential in a way; blindness can be such a hideous thing, the cause of conflicts, struggles and arguments. When I was a child, we never argued. We were happy then. It was easier when I was a twin. “Si–,” I stopped myself. I couldn’t even think her name, never mind say it. Not on the days that I needed her most – like today. My chin quivered and I kicked a piece of glass off the pavement onto the road to join the other parts. I didn’t want it to be alone. It’s not nice being alone.
“Death trap,” I sighed. Then I turned and trudged back to my dark, dingy flat. Yes, I lived in a flat in a crappy housing estate, but I liked it. It was home to me. The welcoming community made it special. A place where everyone looked out for each other. I pushed open the big door before stepping inside.
Grime peppered the walls in the hallway and there was a strong smell of death: sickening sweetness mixed with rotting eggs. It lurked in the corridors. Part of me remained buried with her, you see. I knew that was true. I needed to belong to someone. To Something. When I first moved in, I used to pretend she was there too. Dressed exactly like me. Playing her loud games, changing the rules and luring me towards mischief, but I knew she wasn’t really there with me. And I knew I wasn’t eleven anymore. And I knew the smell came from those funny cigarettes my neighbour smoked and the dogs downstairs. Not from her.
The facts were the facts.
They stole her away after the service and I never saw her again. Only in my dreams when I concentrated hard could I see her. Despite this, I stood in silence in the filthy hallway, and waited but I knew she wouldn’t appear. Her pale face, her grey lips and her blood… everywhere.
The automatic light flickered on in the hallway and then off and then back on again. The light remained but this time a low hum accompanied it. It was like the sound coming off our old fridge in the flat. Comforting in a way. I moved towards the steps and glanced up.
When she died, I became a watcher. It was weird watching people grieve.
On the day of the funeral, I didn’t see Dad cry. Not once. Maybe he hid his tears from me. He definitely gabbled on at a faster rate though. He described every detail at a ridiculous pace: from the coffin she would remain in, to the clothes she would wear. He organised everything, from the funeral to the egg and onion sandwiches.
Mum did the opposite. She dissolved in her own tears. I didn’t recognise her. She was so different. Frail. She was quiet. Too quiet. She cried daily, always on her own. At first, I would listen at her door willing her to stop. But her secret cries became as regular as her constant purchases online and I became oblivious to both.
“I need to stop this,” I whispered. But I knew my mind would never let me stop.
Being a watcher made it easier for me. It kept me occupied from my awful private thoughts. I watched what others did. How they reacted. At the funeral, some reached out and touched me, whilst others avoided me like I was the one who was dead. Not her. I didn’t cry. I assume I copied Dad at the time. I was only eleven after all.
I do remember standing in the church. My legs ached and I longed to sit down. It’s funny how you remember the insignificant things: the swish of Mum’s dress or the stiffness of Dad’s cuff. The whiteness of her coffin. I didn’t remember what the minister said. I missed all the important parts. I missed all the parts about love, Heaven and death. You see, someone later said, “It was a lovely service, really fitting. We can all be reassured now where Sienna is.” From that second on, I regretted not listening. I wanted to know what the minister said. If I could have turned back time I would have stopped moaning about my aching legs and I would have listened.
I remembered the first night, hating the fact she was lying out there in the cold ground. My sister, my still small voice: my twin. I pined to be there with her. It would have felt right. I hated being away from my sister even for short periods of time. It made me anxious. They tried to separate us at school. Put us both into different classes. I kicked up such a fuss they only managed it for a day.
She was gone now, for twelve long years. Not a night would go by when I didn’t think about her, lying out there in the bleak, white coffin whilst I was snug in my warm bed.
I dragged myself up the stone steps. My legs moving like the rat, plodding towards my destination.
Maybe one day Andrew and I would move.
I placed my key in the door and turned it. We would adore a house with a garden. I opened the door and threw my key on our hall table. I could hear mumbled voices from the radio in the kitchen.
Maybe we could have a garden with an oak tree, where the sun would shine down daily. I closed the door with force and sighed. We could move away from the teenagers, the mice and the broken glass on the road. A floating sensation washed over my body. We could move away from the cocksure rat in the deserted house.
I slipped off my cardigan and smoothed down my blouse glancing in our small, cracked, hall mirror.
“Sienna… Sienna… Sienna,” I whispered moving closer and closer.
Maybe a tree would help me salvage the part of me buried with her. My real self, me.
I turned towards my flat and made myself focus on Dad again. Dad hated where I lived. Homes built together as one single development. Rows of terrace houses with flats plonked down at either end like sturdy bookends. I lived in one of these, renting out a one-bedroom flat at the age of nineteen. Five cramped flats knitted together by short corridors and stone steps. Walls as thin as card. Everything grey. Inside and out.
Very little wildlife survived here. Except for the mice. Some found refuge, from the under-fed cats, below the decking in some of the back yards. Others ran to the houses. Drawn in by the warmth.
Once, I saw a rat. The ugliest thing I have ever seen. He slithered out of an uncovered grate. I watched him, with unexpected-courage, as he sauntered towards an unoccupied building. His size gave him more confidence than me. His pace was steady. Not rushed. He looked neither left nor right. No fear filled his mind. He paraded like some of the coatless-teenagers who roamed this place at night. All with cigarettes in their mouths and bottles of cider in their pink freezing hands. A sheen ran down his silver coat as every muscle in his body moved. I read somewhere you can tickle a rat and it will laugh. He slipped into the house, like the teenagers slipping into the shadows to get up to no good. There was no way I was following him into the darkness to tickle him. I shuddered. Dogs barked behind me and I closed my eyes for a second. Dogs lived in the housing estate too. The ones around me – trapped indoors or kept out in the cramped back yards. Rarely taken out for a walk, their lives were wasted in whimpering loneliness. Sad really.
I glanced up. Grey, fat clouds covered the afternoon birdless sky. Sometimes I would see seagulls or crows or the odd robin redbreast. But not today. Today was pointless. One of those long days where you achieve nothing, no one listens to your words and you feel alone, gobbled up by insignificance.
Another swelling breeze hit my face.
I thought about her again. My twin, who had died at the age of eleven. I grimaced and bit down on my lip and pulled at the collar of my silk blouse under my cardigan. A bin lorry droned in the distance. My fast heart-rate maintaining the pace of its repetitive beep.
I took a deep breath but still felt heaviness in my chest.
Dad was good to me really. Always checking up on me, encouraging me to apply for jobs and always had time to sit and play a game of chess. He just didn’t get my husband. Blind to his potential in a way; blindness can be such a hideous thing, the cause of conflicts, struggles and arguments. When I was a child, we never argued. We were happy then. It was easier when I was a twin. “Si–,” I stopped myself. I couldn’t even think her name, never mind say it. Not on the days that I needed her most – like today. My chin quivered and I kicked a piece of glass off the pavement onto the road to join the other parts. I didn’t want it to be alone. It’s not nice being alone.
“Death trap,” I sighed. Then I turned and trudged back to my dark, dingy flat. Yes, I lived in a flat in a crappy housing estate, but I liked it. It was home to me. The welcoming community made it special. A place where everyone looked out for each other. I pushed open the big door before stepping inside.
Grime peppered the walls in the hallway and there was a strong smell of death: sickening sweetness mixed with rotting eggs. It lurked in the corridors. Part of me remained buried with her, you see. I knew that was true. I needed to belong to someone. To Something. When I first moved in, I used to pretend she was there too. Dressed exactly like me. Playing her loud games, changing the rules and luring me towards mischief, but I knew she wasn’t really there with me. And I knew I wasn’t eleven anymore. And I knew the smell came from those funny cigarettes my neighbour smoked and the dogs downstairs. Not from her.
The facts were the facts.
They stole her away after the service and I never saw her again. Only in my dreams when I concentrated hard could I see her. Despite this, I stood in silence in the filthy hallway, and waited but I knew she wouldn’t appear. Her pale face, her grey lips and her blood… everywhere.
The automatic light flickered on in the hallway and then off and then back on again. The light remained but this time a low hum accompanied it. It was like the sound coming off our old fridge in the flat. Comforting in a way. I moved towards the steps and glanced up.
When she died, I became a watcher. It was weird watching people grieve.
On the day of the funeral, I didn’t see Dad cry. Not once. Maybe he hid his tears from me. He definitely gabbled on at a faster rate though. He described every detail at a ridiculous pace: from the coffin she would remain in, to the clothes she would wear. He organised everything, from the funeral to the egg and onion sandwiches.
Mum did the opposite. She dissolved in her own tears. I didn’t recognise her. She was so different. Frail. She was quiet. Too quiet. She cried daily, always on her own. At first, I would listen at her door willing her to stop. But her secret cries became as regular as her constant purchases online and I became oblivious to both.
“I need to stop this,” I whispered. But I knew my mind would never let me stop.
Being a watcher made it easier for me. It kept me occupied from my awful private thoughts. I watched what others did. How they reacted. At the funeral, some reached out and touched me, whilst others avoided me like I was the one who was dead. Not her. I didn’t cry. I assume I copied Dad at the time. I was only eleven after all.
I do remember standing in the church. My legs ached and I longed to sit down. It’s funny how you remember the insignificant things: the swish of Mum’s dress or the stiffness of Dad’s cuff. The whiteness of her coffin. I didn’t remember what the minister said. I missed all the important parts. I missed all the parts about love, Heaven and death. You see, someone later said, “It was a lovely service, really fitting. We can all be reassured now where Sienna is.” From that second on, I regretted not listening. I wanted to know what the minister said. If I could have turned back time I would have stopped moaning about my aching legs and I would have listened.
I remembered the first night, hating the fact she was lying out there in the cold ground. My sister, my still small voice: my twin. I pined to be there with her. It would have felt right. I hated being away from my sister even for short periods of time. It made me anxious. They tried to separate us at school. Put us both into different classes. I kicked up such a fuss they only managed it for a day.
She was gone now, for twelve long years. Not a night would go by when I didn’t think about her, lying out there in the bleak, white coffin whilst I was snug in my warm bed.
I dragged myself up the stone steps. My legs moving like the rat, plodding towards my destination.
Maybe one day Andrew and I would move.
I placed my key in the door and turned it. We would adore a house with a garden. I opened the door and threw my key on our hall table. I could hear mumbled voices from the radio in the kitchen.
Maybe we could have a garden with an oak tree, where the sun would shine down daily. I closed the door with force and sighed. We could move away from the teenagers, the mice and the broken glass on the road. A floating sensation washed over my body. We could move away from the cocksure rat in the deserted house.
I slipped off my cardigan and smoothed down my blouse glancing in our small, cracked, hall mirror.
“Sienna… Sienna… Sienna,” I whispered moving closer and closer.
Maybe a tree would help me salvage the part of me buried with her. My real self, me.
An interactive read (For all who love music)
As you read each chapter - play the playlist below - to totally understand the characters you are meeting.
Chapter One - Fiona's favourite song - she plays this to Andrew when he reurns home - just after her Father left.
Chapter Two - Rachel - Her song when she walks to the oak tree.
Chapter two - Rachel - her song when cleaning her house before the move.
Chapter Three - Songs on the radio in Dean's car.
Chapter Four & Five - Music in the community centre
Chapter six - Fiona as she watches Will.
Chapter Seven - Music inside the flat before Fiona Enters.
Chapter eight - Andrew's relationship with his father.
Chapter Nine & Ten - Music in Jack's car.
Chapter Eleven - Music at Rachel's party.
Chapter twelve - Music playing when Fiona appears for breakfast.
Chapter Twelve - Music playing at Richard's house.
Chapter Thirteen - the sea brings in this lullaby for Fiona.
Chapter Fourteen - Dean in the car thinking about his girls.
Chapter fifteen & sixteen - Miss Honey's song - as she drives away from Dean and Rachel.
Chapter Seventeen - Richard's music in his white van.
Chapter Eighteen - Music playing as Rachel dances around her new house in front of Dean.
Chapter Nineteen - Paige remembering her backpacking experience around morocco.
Chapter Twenty - William's song.
Chapter Twenty - Avik's song.
Chapter Twenty-one - Dean getting up in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-two - Music playing when Rachel discovers Dean packing their bags.
Chapter Twenty-Three - When Rachel wrapped her blanket around her daughter.
Chapter twenty-four - music playing at hunter's mansion.
Chapter twenty-five - Daisy Hubbard's place.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Jasmine with hunter.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Fiona's thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-seven - Rachel's song.
Chapter twenty-seven - Mary's song.
Chapter Twenty-eight - Lucy's song.
Chapter Twenty-nine - Rachel.
Chapter Thirty - Music in the car to Avik's Farmhouse.
Chapter Thirty - In Avik's Farmhouse.
Chapter Thirty-one - Fiona outside
Chapter Thirty-Two - On the way to Trent wood
Chapter Thirty-three - Hunter & Mary
Chapter Thirty-Four - In the hunting Cabin
Chapter Thirty-Five -Dean
Chapter Thirty-Six - Lucy
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Dean arrives home
Chapter Thirty-Eight - In the house
Chapter thirty-nine - Dean
Chapter Forty - Rachel
Chapter Forty-one - In taxi
Chapter Forty-Two - Andrew
Chapter Forty-three - Dean
Chapter Forty-Four - Andrew
Chapter Forty-five - Dean
Chapter Forty-Six - Fiona
Chapter Forty-Seven - Andrew
Chapter Forty-Eight - Dean
Chapter Forty-nine - Fiona
Chapter Fifty- Dean
Chapter fify-one - Fiona
Chapter Fifty-two - Fiona
Until the next book:
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